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29.5.10
DEM simulation of slow crushing of single particles
My colleague Dr Abubeker Ali produced these results. His excellent work shows slow crushing of a single binary ore particle, at strain rates typical of those in a jaw crusher. The sequence shows the particle, a crushed untreated particle, and a crushed particle following treatment at high microwave power density. The images have been coloured to allow Dr Ali to determine the liberation spectrum of the progeny fragments.
These images should not be copied or reproduced.
These images should not be copied or reproduced.
A Grillion, M'Lud
After a wildly strong espresso I need an alligator to wrestle. Instead I am going to fill in my scorecard.
Now I am going to mop the kitchen floor.
- Right wrist - doesn't rotate. Minus 1 billion points.
- Celebrex - really does work on my fingers. Each tablet is in the form of a football-sized pill of self-denial. Plus 500 million points.
- My points scale seems similar to pricing an expensive Ferrari in Lire. Cool. Neutral score.
- Within a year we'll be able to combine electromagnetic cavity simulations, DEM simulations of treated ore particles and fundamental flotation models to predict flowsheet behaviour of microwave treatment from a priori mineralogy. Plus 2 Grillion points. You need to know about the Krikkit Wars to understand how many points this is.
- Doing the 2 finger problem up the system wall. This is the biggest achievement of my life. This week. I think it's entirely reasonable to get Plus 1 Grillion points.
- Failing to do a single one of Phlip's or Allan's problems at the wall. Actually it's a little worse. Failing to do a single move on any of them. Hmmm. Minus 1 Grillion points.
- Working out that people searching for Noah's Ark have got the scale wrong. I have not done the calculations precisely, but Guy and I estimated this morning that it was probably the size of Sweden. Grubbing round near Mt Ararat is the wrong approach. We are looking for a much bigger structure, and a distant vantage point is the place from which to start looking. I suggest the moon would do. This is worth at least a point.
- Getting Python and SciPy loaded on my machine and fantasising that I am going to do hardcore coding 20 years after I last wrote code in anger. Plus 27 points.
Now I am going to mop the kitchen floor.
23.5.10
Accountability
Before the end of the year/my fingers
- As I Am 31? - new route at Oorlogs
- Where I Stood >32? - new route at Oorlogs
Dark Heart 30 - Kalk BayRuins my wrists- Tea with Elmarie 8A+ - Rocklands
- Stone Heaven 30 - Umgeni
- Smackdown 28 - Umgeni
- ******** !! - open project ****** (this is pretty ambitious so I would rather keep it to myself)
- Fossil Fuel 31 - The Chosspile
- Boulevard of Broken Dreams 27 - Mhlabatini
Osteoarthritis
I feel comfortably glued to my chair otherwise I would get up, pull out the relevant book and cite the reference that says something along the lines of "it's a myth that climbers will get osteoarthritis".
Bullshit.
I got the high resolution ultrasound scans done last week.All 8 PIP joint and all 8 DIP joints have it. There are osteophytes present in several of the PIP joints. Little bits of bone. We didn't bother looking at the thumbs.No point really; even the x-ray showed an osteophyte in one thumb. Hmmm. So that's all fairly clear then. Over 30 years of finger joint abuse and that's what you get. Is this a big deal? Well, the pain wakes me up every night. Crimping is a little more stressful on finger joints than sleeping...
Now, where did I put those anti-inflammatories?
Bullshit.
Now, where did I put those anti-inflammatories?
"How did you like amateur hour at the Tour de France? " - LA
That more or less sums up the performance aspect of an otherwise great day out at the crag with some great new climbing mates.Let's make a list shall we?
Dark Heart, 30, Kallk Bay. It's a horrible route really - always full of grime, bolts in the wrong place, but it's got these big, butch and ugly moves that make you feel so inadequate when you fail on them. I also ended up banging my head on it (micro-lump visible using STEM. Also on the grainy photo above). What kind of a crap route do you bang your head on, for heaven's sakes?
I'll get it next time.
Today was the 23rd May. A landmark day for me.
- Running out of liquids at lunch time
- Dieting on a climbing day
- Starting a new training cycle the day before a climbing day
- Sitting around for an hour between attempts and not bothering to warm up before the next attempt
- Spending an hour trying to do the crux move statically in the mistaken belief that's how you did it previously and stubbornly refusing to do the simple dyno to the sloper instead, until right at end of the afternoon.
I'll get it next time.
Today was the 23rd May. A landmark day for me.
20.5.10
Where the fuck has my navel gone?
A few years back I sent in a news report to a climbing magazine congratulating myself on doing an ascent of a moderately difficult climb. It was nonsense. Let me explain. It’s quite true that I did indeed tie into the rope at the bottom of the route, and I climbed up to the top without falling off. It’s also true that it was hardest climb I had done for a while. There were plenty of reasons for this. For example, I spent some years doing an imitation of being a husband. Once I realised that I had made a total balls up of that, I perfected being a father instead. Some time later I decided that I needed to become an expert in designing microwave treatment systems. That took quite a bit of effort, but in the end I got there. And so, after all these and other distractions spanning several years, I looked in the mirror, only to find that my reflection occupied its entire width. Further, when I tried to find my belly button, I found that it appeared to have receded several centimetres into my body. I knew enough about physiology to realise that this couldn’t really happen, and was therefore was forced to accept that I had finally become a slob and probably couldn’t climb for shit.
So far, of course, this was just a hypothesis. Now, I am a scientist, and scientists like to test their hypotheses. Accordingly, I arranged for just such a test. It was to be a simple test, and the results had to be unequivocal. The test – I would go out for a day’s climbing. And so I did the test, and now let us have no argument here: at a confidence level of close to 100% I established that I was indeed really, really crap. As a result I swore that I was going to throw my gear into my wheelie bin that very night. It was at this point that I was saved from a monumental folly by one of my many personality disorders – my inability to get rid of stuff. Any kind of stuff really – old love letters, tatty ropes and my climbing gear. I just couldn’t bear to chuck it in the bin.
There was another interesting insight I gained from my little science experiment – I had publicly humiliated myself, and I didn’t like it. While being lowered from a climb on which I had failed to toprope a single move I had been asked if I didn’t used to be Steve Bradshaw. The shame of it...
Clearly there were now only two options at this point, as Warren Harding pointed out many years ago. Either I had to climb a whole lot more or a whole lot less. I chose the former. And in a round about way this brings me to the point where I came in – my magazine news report and the actual nature of my ascent. The thing is this – there are very many aspects to doing a climb that pushes one’s personal limits. And there were very many of those things that I actually couldn’t do at all. So I got someone to do the climb with me.
I chose to do the easy things. There wasn’t much to it really – I had to figure out how to do some underclings, use a bit of body tension, that sort of thing. Not too tricky really, particularly as I had been doing this sport all my adult life. I had to do some training too – but that was fairly straightforward as well. Some running to lose weight, some pull ups and dead hangs, a bit of campus board stuff and lock offs. On the other hand, my friend had to do all the hard things that I couldn’t do.
She had to provide support when I went out to try the climb. She had to give up her afternoons to hold my rope and stand way back under the big roof not able to see what was going on and pay out rope at the right time and lower me down when I was tired. And when I wanted to climb back up the rope to work on the crux moves one more time she had take tight so I could do the rock princess walk up the rope to my high point. She had to listen when I complained that my finger was sore and that my joints were aching. She had to check through the scientific literature on climbing injuries and see why I had funny nodules growing on my fingers and whether climbing had caused them. And every time I thought I was putting on weight she had to listen patiently and then point out that in the morning, I would weigh just the same as I had the day before. She had to provide all the words of encouragement when I kept on messing up the hard move on the lip, and had to tell me what I was doing wrong. She had to put up with my obsession and ramblings and whims. She had to sit patiently with me in between attempts and listen to me prattle on about the pain in my finger from the slot on the lip. She had to do all the things that I couldn’t do myself; all the things that made the difference between success and failure.
So,I really didn’t do the climb. My friend and I climbed did it.
So far, of course, this was just a hypothesis. Now, I am a scientist, and scientists like to test their hypotheses. Accordingly, I arranged for just such a test. It was to be a simple test, and the results had to be unequivocal. The test – I would go out for a day’s climbing. And so I did the test, and now let us have no argument here: at a confidence level of close to 100% I established that I was indeed really, really crap. As a result I swore that I was going to throw my gear into my wheelie bin that very night. It was at this point that I was saved from a monumental folly by one of my many personality disorders – my inability to get rid of stuff. Any kind of stuff really – old love letters, tatty ropes and my climbing gear. I just couldn’t bear to chuck it in the bin.
There was another interesting insight I gained from my little science experiment – I had publicly humiliated myself, and I didn’t like it. While being lowered from a climb on which I had failed to toprope a single move I had been asked if I didn’t used to be Steve Bradshaw. The shame of it...
Clearly there were now only two options at this point, as Warren Harding pointed out many years ago. Either I had to climb a whole lot more or a whole lot less. I chose the former. And in a round about way this brings me to the point where I came in – my magazine news report and the actual nature of my ascent. The thing is this – there are very many aspects to doing a climb that pushes one’s personal limits. And there were very many of those things that I actually couldn’t do at all. So I got someone to do the climb with me.
I chose to do the easy things. There wasn’t much to it really – I had to figure out how to do some underclings, use a bit of body tension, that sort of thing. Not too tricky really, particularly as I had been doing this sport all my adult life. I had to do some training too – but that was fairly straightforward as well. Some running to lose weight, some pull ups and dead hangs, a bit of campus board stuff and lock offs. On the other hand, my friend had to do all the hard things that I couldn’t do.
She had to provide support when I went out to try the climb. She had to give up her afternoons to hold my rope and stand way back under the big roof not able to see what was going on and pay out rope at the right time and lower me down when I was tired. And when I wanted to climb back up the rope to work on the crux moves one more time she had take tight so I could do the rock princess walk up the rope to my high point. She had to listen when I complained that my finger was sore and that my joints were aching. She had to check through the scientific literature on climbing injuries and see why I had funny nodules growing on my fingers and whether climbing had caused them. And every time I thought I was putting on weight she had to listen patiently and then point out that in the morning, I would weigh just the same as I had the day before. She had to provide all the words of encouragement when I kept on messing up the hard move on the lip, and had to tell me what I was doing wrong. She had to put up with my obsession and ramblings and whims. She had to sit patiently with me in between attempts and listen to me prattle on about the pain in my finger from the slot on the lip. She had to do all the things that I couldn’t do myself; all the things that made the difference between success and failure.
So,I really didn’t do the climb. My friend and I climbed did it.
This was all many years ago...
Dear Andrew
I had originally thought that I would buy you a farewell card but such cards are often trite and seldom convey the true message of the sender. Instead I sat down to write these lines that I hope have captured a few of the memories of your time in this country.
I remember the first time you ever touched rock. It was Beginners Meet at Monteseel and you followed Reformatory facing out from the rock on the crux! I am sure later that afternoon I would have led Hallucination; it’s what I always did.
Hallucination… It is hard now to imagine just what that route meant to us back then – in the centre of the arena yet before it became a trade route for everyone ticking off another route in checklist to stardom. Do you remember all the silly things we said at various times while doing the route? “Not only am I unfit, I’m also useless.” Didn’t you keep a record of how many times you did the route? I guess my ascents must be in the hundreds. So much personal history in forty feet of rock.
I feel like Villon and asking, “Where are the great days of flying up to the Transvaal for a long weekend?” (Of course Villon didn’t fly anywhere, and was longing for snow). Waiting in the lounge for the midnight flight, sipping Cointreau, opening a new route in Mhlabatini, flying back to Durban late on Sunday night and then feeling like death the next day. But fortunately there would be the wall to go to that afternoon, anxiously checking the time as it neared a quarter to four. Doing the difficult traverse, the desperate mantels, chatting to “the starlet”, laughing with Craig as he lounged on the grass in his disco slippers before cranking out some hideously think move and then climbing on into the dark with the floodlights.
Ultimately, of course, it was Monteseel that was our real home. It was fresh and exciting still and grotty and scruffy as well. There were nights at the hut when nobody else was there and we were bored to tears, forced to go down to the bar at Thousand Hills Hotel to pass the evening. Others times, though, the hut was so crowded that sleep was impossible – snoring climbers, the dripping tap and rattling door. Noisy parties next door, and a local band playing Lover Boy. The filthy shower, dirty sink, collapsing furniture and beers mugs all covered in candle wax. Reading two year old time magazines while hiding from the midday sun. Arriving at the hut on a Saturday morning and rushing to check the notice board for new routes, to see the comments scrawled in the hut book and in the new route book. Opening a new line and proudly (arrogantly?) writing it up, deliberating over the route name. That weekend a group of physics students came to watch Halley’s Comet and braai and made such a racket. And climbing. Leading Rigor Mortis with you barely consenting to belay in hole – I don’t suppose that you heard that the entire pillar fell down some years later? Warchild, Edge of Eternity. Soloing Pinup, following routes in running shoes and soloing down Pilgrims Progress to get to the start of Wild Sky. What stories and memories those routes hold for us lucky enough to have been climbing then.
What happens to that special feeling that climbing gave us? Does it last, or disappear with our youth? No, it’s still there. When the time and conditions are right, it all comes flooding back, just like it did on Guy Fawkes Day in 1988 when I opened Lonely Walls. I was glad it was you belaying me that day. It was right. The old team, putting it together one last time. Leading out on those grey walls at Winston Park when the wind is blowing and the sky grey and heavy with impending rain is a memory that will stay with me forever. I hope you remember that day and remember that it’s all worthwhile. The hours of effort, the training, injuries, all of it is worth it for just one day on a route like that. I haven’t been back since that day and doubt I ever shall. There is a big toll plaza below the crag now on a new freeway, and the route was bolted sometime later. I suppose that might have been a good idea, because now other people can make their own types of memories there.
Andrew, you helped my climbing so much. You belayed me on so many routes, you seemed to believe in me and helped me to believe in myself. Shadows in the Rain, Wish You Were Here, Glory Road; the list could go on and on. We had our ups and downs, but with the passing of time that all seems so meaningless. And now you are leaving this country for good and I don’t suppose I shall see you again. I shall always value the memories of the times you shared with me. I hope you don’t forget either.
I had originally thought that I would buy you a farewell card but such cards are often trite and seldom convey the true message of the sender. Instead I sat down to write these lines that I hope have captured a few of the memories of your time in this country.
I remember the first time you ever touched rock. It was Beginners Meet at Monteseel and you followed Reformatory facing out from the rock on the crux! I am sure later that afternoon I would have led Hallucination; it’s what I always did.
Hallucination… It is hard now to imagine just what that route meant to us back then – in the centre of the arena yet before it became a trade route for everyone ticking off another route in checklist to stardom. Do you remember all the silly things we said at various times while doing the route? “Not only am I unfit, I’m also useless.” Didn’t you keep a record of how many times you did the route? I guess my ascents must be in the hundreds. So much personal history in forty feet of rock.
I feel like Villon and asking, “Where are the great days of flying up to the Transvaal for a long weekend?” (Of course Villon didn’t fly anywhere, and was longing for snow). Waiting in the lounge for the midnight flight, sipping Cointreau, opening a new route in Mhlabatini, flying back to Durban late on Sunday night and then feeling like death the next day. But fortunately there would be the wall to go to that afternoon, anxiously checking the time as it neared a quarter to four. Doing the difficult traverse, the desperate mantels, chatting to “the starlet”, laughing with Craig as he lounged on the grass in his disco slippers before cranking out some hideously think move and then climbing on into the dark with the floodlights.
Ultimately, of course, it was Monteseel that was our real home. It was fresh and exciting still and grotty and scruffy as well. There were nights at the hut when nobody else was there and we were bored to tears, forced to go down to the bar at Thousand Hills Hotel to pass the evening. Others times, though, the hut was so crowded that sleep was impossible – snoring climbers, the dripping tap and rattling door. Noisy parties next door, and a local band playing Lover Boy. The filthy shower, dirty sink, collapsing furniture and beers mugs all covered in candle wax. Reading two year old time magazines while hiding from the midday sun. Arriving at the hut on a Saturday morning and rushing to check the notice board for new routes, to see the comments scrawled in the hut book and in the new route book. Opening a new line and proudly (arrogantly?) writing it up, deliberating over the route name. That weekend a group of physics students came to watch Halley’s Comet and braai and made such a racket. And climbing. Leading Rigor Mortis with you barely consenting to belay in hole – I don’t suppose that you heard that the entire pillar fell down some years later? Warchild, Edge of Eternity. Soloing Pinup, following routes in running shoes and soloing down Pilgrims Progress to get to the start of Wild Sky. What stories and memories those routes hold for us lucky enough to have been climbing then.
What happens to that special feeling that climbing gave us? Does it last, or disappear with our youth? No, it’s still there. When the time and conditions are right, it all comes flooding back, just like it did on Guy Fawkes Day in 1988 when I opened Lonely Walls. I was glad it was you belaying me that day. It was right. The old team, putting it together one last time. Leading out on those grey walls at Winston Park when the wind is blowing and the sky grey and heavy with impending rain is a memory that will stay with me forever. I hope you remember that day and remember that it’s all worthwhile. The hours of effort, the training, injuries, all of it is worth it for just one day on a route like that. I haven’t been back since that day and doubt I ever shall. There is a big toll plaza below the crag now on a new freeway, and the route was bolted sometime later. I suppose that might have been a good idea, because now other people can make their own types of memories there.
Andrew, you helped my climbing so much. You belayed me on so many routes, you seemed to believe in me and helped me to believe in myself. Shadows in the Rain, Wish You Were Here, Glory Road; the list could go on and on. We had our ups and downs, but with the passing of time that all seems so meaningless. And now you are leaving this country for good and I don’t suppose I shall see you again. I shall always value the memories of the times you shared with me. I hope you don’t forget either.
17.5.10
My entire climb is smaller than the smallest hold on yours
I always veer off the road around about there, because I try to see the wall and the line of Renaissance. Very strangely indeed it turns out that more or less the most memorable day of my life (clearly this can't really be true, perhaps it's the 3rd most memorable) was the day Snort and I did Renaissance free in a day from Cape Town. I am led to believe that Snort is now impersonating an orthopaedic surgeon called Charles Edelstein and living in Cape Town.
The thing that struck me is that I was off to top rope a new project which really is smaller (in its entirety) than the smallest hold on Renaissance. That seemed like a very odd thing and I wondered how I had come to be living at the focal point of a high powered microscope.
Renaissance free in a day from Cape Town... Technically I suppose it's all of grade 22 and has holds the size of aircraft carriers, but that is missing the point. It really was one of the best days out.
As a footnote: A couple of years later I tried to do another route on the wall, the name of which I have completely forgotten. I got off route on the scrambling stuff at the bottom and arrived at the big ledge 4 hours after leaving the ground instead of 4 minutes later. And that was more or less that.
Important climbs
In the UK some climbers are lucky enough to do important climbs.
Important?
I decided to make a list of all my important climbs and then to make another list of all the people to whom those climbs were important. Then I would cross-correlate the two lists using some nifty software that I don't have and from that I would extract a network of important connections.
This took me absolutely no time at all. There wasn't a single entry on either list.
It reminded me of the Tilman biography The Last Hero which, I hasten to add, I haven't read. On the other hand I did read Harold Drasdo's review of the book in which he asked if you could be considered a hero for simply indulging your passion for wandering round in the wilderness or sailing round the world.
Can there possibly be such things as important climbs?
Important?
I decided to make a list of all my important climbs and then to make another list of all the people to whom those climbs were important. Then I would cross-correlate the two lists using some nifty software that I don't have and from that I would extract a network of important connections.
This took me absolutely no time at all. There wasn't a single entry on either list.
It reminded me of the Tilman biography The Last Hero which, I hasten to add, I haven't read. On the other hand I did read Harold Drasdo's review of the book in which he asked if you could be considered a hero for simply indulging your passion for wandering round in the wilderness or sailing round the world.
Can there possibly be such things as important climbs?
Shirker or Sherpa?
Yesterday morning was decision time. Shirker or Sherpa? More specifically, did I want to drive for two and a half hours, thrash up a bushy hill with full pack for 30 minutes and then spend 3 hours drilling bolts before reversing the travel experience, all on my own?
At around 10:30 am, while in the middle of wide-ranging debate with my ex-wife and eldest daughter about visiting arrangements, finances, schools etc, an SMS arrived. During a lull in negotiations I sneaked a glance and the message said "go and bolt it".
We quickly negotiated world peace and then I rushed home, packed and headed out to Oorlogskloof. Everything went swimmingly. There was a slight moment's hesitation when I was clipped to the anchors at the top of the wall and pulled the rope from the top anchor. It struck me that dropping the rope at that point would make things very unpleasant indeed, for a few days, until death set in.
So the line starts up The Dream to the 4th bolt, then moves diagonally right for a further 8 bolts. In 2 places the opposite side of the gully is fairly close and it was hard to decide how best to place the bolts at that point to make the fall safe. I hope I got it right.
It has the same hardish start as The Dream, then instead of the hand jam rest moves right on reasonable holds. It probably doesn't have a hard single crux move, but the top half looks more sustained than The Dream, on smaller holds.
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